Inheritance
by Alliriyan
Summary: Voldemort values his Slytherin ancestry and secures an heir, just in case. His child Marvela suffers a life of inherited but not invited evil traits; and she fears that new DADA professor Potter will want to kill her when he finds out who she really is.
1. The New Teacher

_I don't own the Harry Potter franchise – I just like to mess with it._

**Inheritance**

Chapter One: The New Teacher

When does it all start? You can say it starts when they get their first wand. Or when they perform their first baby-magic. Or when they're born. Or even at conception. And before that it began with their parents' lives.

At the end all you can say is that it began at the beginning of time. And if you don't believe in pre-determinism you can say it starts only at the instant that it happens.

For her it began when she found out the new teacher's name.

That's when it began to go downhill.

…Faster, anyway…

* * *

The stone corridors were filled with the susurrus of gossip, spreading like wildfire throughout the school.

She didn't really have many friends to tell, so she screamed it into her diary. She felt a strange combination of admiration and absolute terror towards the source of the excitement; incredibly strong feelings, despite never having met the man.

_Jan 3rd_

_Frieda's toad ran away today. It's a really expensive breed, so she _

_keeps begging me to find it. I have holiday homework to do by_

_tomorrow. Why can't she?_

…_Finished the homework. Just._

_Jan 4th_

_There's a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher halfway through the year. Professor Maddigan left to have her baby last term. Everyone's saying how embarrassing it must be for his kids that come here. I wouldn't want _my

_father to teach here. Well…stepfather._

_I'll have to play dumb in DADA; I really don't want the temp to notice me._

_Professor Harry Potter. __**(!?)**_

_**HARRY POTTER!**_

_What should I do if he recognises me?!_

_And if he does and tells everyone my life is fucked. It's over._

_I'm nearly to the end of school. The past six years haven't gone_

_too badly, I just need to make it through the exams now…_

_I wish it wasn't him._

…_I can't disrespect him. He killed the Dark Lord._

_You can't hate a hero._

_I don't hate him I'm just __scared__…_

_Need to be careful._

_No one's found out yet._

_

* * *

  
_

In a different part of the school Professor Harry Potter was facing his very first class, with the very worst combination of Houses he could possibly have. Gryffindor and Slytherin first years.

_I will not favour my child…_ He chanted to himself, watching his youngest son Albus James Potter sit down and start chatting animatedly to his friends, with the occasional perplexed glance towards the 'new' teacher.

_I will not bully Malfoy's spawn…I will not be like Snape…_ Harry continued mentally, as the platinum-haired pureblood glared at him with all the vitriol a twelve-year-old could muster.

Within five minutes the class was full and twenty pairs of eyes were fixed upon him. Celebrity status granted him their complete and effortless attention. Until they opened their mouths and started pelting him with questions, anyway.

"Good morning, everybody. You are my very first class here at Hogwarts." _Doesn't that make Monday morning lessons worth getting up for? _"I'll be taking the register and finding out your names soon, but first I'd like to know what Professor Maddigan has already taught you. Any volunteers?" _Someone really needs to introduce the idea of 'curriculum' to Hogwarts one of these days…I have no idea what the previous professor covered, or how well._

Nineteen hands shot up. Scorpius Malfoy tried to look cool and nonchalant, but it was already obvious that he'd be listening as hard as he could to the others. Harry pointed at random. "You."

"Are you really _the_ Harry Potter?!" squealed a child, making his classmates break into mocking laughter. Duh. Of course it was _the_ Harry Potter. Who else had a bolt of lightning scratched into their face?

"I'm certain that's not part of your exams," he replied in a crowd-control manner. But the floodgates had already opened.

"How did you kill Voldywort?"

"Was it scary?"

"Do lots of girls like you coz you're a hero?"

"Can I have your autograph?!" – "Oh oh can I too?!!" – "Can my mum have your autograph?" – "Did you know my auntie Lavender?" – "Can we blow stuff up?" – "Will you teach us awesome curses??" – "Tell us about the war!" – "I want a photo!" – "Why did you turn down the Chudley Cannons?" – "Why don't you get magic lenses, your glasses are ugly!" – "I wanna learn how to fight a dragon!"

Besieged, he picked up the heaviest textbook he could lay his hands on and smacked it onto his desk with a resounding BAM!

In the silence that followed one muggleborn asked: "Who the hell is Harry Potter?"

"Don't swear," snapped Harry. "And put your hand up."

The girl blinked at him for a second, then slowly raised her arm. "Yes?"

"Can we call you Scarface?"

* * *

_No one's found out yet._

_And it has to stay that way._

_

* * *

  
_

**Chapter notes:**

Hey! You made it to the end. Welcome to Inheritance, my honest attempt to make a Voldemort's-offspring fanfiction with less than one percent Mary-Sue. I haven't found one yet, so I hope you enjoy this offering.

Please review, and remind me how hopeless such a goal is. Or better yet, say you like it!

_Alliriyan_


	2. The Wand

_I don't own the Harry Potter franchise – I just like to mess with it._

**Inheritance**

Chapter Two: The Wand

She always woke up abruptly but today was especially fast. Her housemate Frieda Tarrowdech had stolen her duvet. A chill was seeping through the fabric of her nightie.

"Why did you wake me before the fires were lit?" mumbled the girl, sitting upright and reaching automatically for the diary on her bedside table. Frieda was dancing around the room with its green upholstery and silver trimmings, filling her schoolbag with her wash kit.

"Leave that bloody diary where it is. We have to get up early. I want to take a bath and make sure I look my best for the new teacher!"

"…Frieda, he's old and married with children…"

"It's out of respect!" squawked the other. After finding a towel in the bottom of her trunk she turned and crooked her finger at her friend. "Come hither. I'll let you use the Prefect's bathroom when I'm done."

That _was_ tempting. "…Fine."

* * *

So, she'd made it to class, mostly thanks to Frieda dragging her there. And here she was, sat in the same room as the great Harry Potter.

Such an ordinary name.

"Sheesh, you're way more nervous than I am! After moaning at me all morning!" said the Prefect.

She just waved the accusation aside and tried to hide her face behind her hands and long black hair. Now the man was calling the register, and matching names to faces.

"Vixerus, Marvela."

She glanced up and found him staring at her. Waving because she didn't trust her voice, she suffered the green-eyed gaze for five more seconds before he ticked her name off the register and started the lesson proper.

Phew. Heart attack aborted.

"Before getting back into preparation for your NEWTs, today we are going to have a practical. First off, someone is going to fight me, so I can evaluate your skills at offence and defence."

Professor Potter hid a cringe and asked the million-answer question. "Any volunteers?"

…The classroom was mysteriously silent. It seemed that no one wanted to tackle a teacher of Dark-Lord-defeating standing. Frieda, being the Slytherin Prefect, therefore took responsibility and volunteered the girl sitting next to her.

"Ella will do it!" she said cheerfully, pushing Marvela off her stool. "She's really good at Dark Arts!"

The 'volunteer' tried to catch her balance at the same time as hissing "Defence! Good at defence!" Grabbing her wand, she walked up to the front of the class and faced off against the man who killed…

In any case. Heart attack back on schedule.

"We'll start with freeform duelling, ok? You attack, I'll defend, and then we'll switch."

Ella Vixerus bit her lip out of nerves and habit, then cautiously raised her wand.

* * *

Ollivander, maker and purveyor of top quality wands for longer than anyone could remember. The dense magical atmosphere of his dusty shop had pickled and preserved him for countless decades. Perhaps he had a Philosopher's Stone hidden in the stacks. Perhaps everyone in his family looked exactly the same. Perhaps he was a golem. No one knew.

They'd passed the shop several times that day. For Marvela, getting a wand was at the top of her list; but it seemed that every time she and her parents walked up to Ollivander's someone else was purchasing their own. The procurement of a wand is an extremely exclusive occasion, and so they were forced to put it off about five or six times that day.

To be the centre of attention and have money lavished on her, albeit in the name of education, was a rare thing to Marvela. To be more specific, whilst her mother was loving if eternally paranoid; her stepfather was unloving, controlling and heavy-handed. So to be the object of his interest was all the more precious. Even if the man detested her very existence, he couldn't treat her in such a way without drawing suspicion and damaging the name of two eminent pureblood families. And by relation the names of several others. Being a sensible pureblood peer was all about understanding the ripple effect.

To cut a long story and several family trees short, they went to buy school robes first. Then came back to check the wand shop. Then bought the books. Then checked again. Then bought the cauldron and potion ingredients kit. And checked again. Then ate lunch. Then checked. Then spent two hours selecting an owl at the Emporium. Then checked again and returned, forlorn, to the Emporium. At which point she decided she didn't want an owl at all and chose a smoke-grey cat with large tangerine-coloured eyes in about ten minutes. They checked. The family went to gawk at the beautiful new broomsticks on offer and then told their daughter she wasn't allowed one the moment she decided she couldn't live without a ROCket Racing Broom. Then they checked Ollivander's. Again.

In the end they got their chance five minutes before closing time, which meant the soon-to-be-Hogwarts-pupil had had several treats and supplementary materials bought for her just to kill time. What a wonderful day it had been.

"Welcome. Please make yourselves comfortable, Mabbeth Vixerus – eleven inches weeping willow and unicorn foal hair – and Edward Bransgorge, nine and three eighths inches cherry and dragon heartstring." His voice was soft and rushed, his eyes luminous, his silvery hair _vo_luminous, and his knowledge of your wooden soul mate unmatched. Ollivander.

"And you must be…?"

"M-marvela," squeaked the eleven-year-old, suddenly deciding to hide behind her mother after begging all day long to go to the wand shop.

"Marvela Bransgorge," he finished for her. Mabbeth raised a hand and stepped forwards slightly. "Ah, no…Ella takes my maiden name. And we also like to avoid her full given name. It's…uh…"

Ollivander tutted and corrected himself before the mother felt pushed into giving an explanation. "Ella Vixerus, then. Please stand forwards and be measured, Ella."

Measured? That sounded scary. She inched forwards and trembled until he pulled out an innocuous spool of measuring tape and asked for her dominant hand.

When the girl held out her right arm, and he saw her properly, he was hit by a terrible sense of déjà vu. Or to be more accurate, déjà senti. Only one person had the same magical energy signature as this. Only one person needed the exact same wand to channel their power through as this. That one person made his skin crawl in apprehension…and just a little admiration.

A wand to amplify genius.

…Hell if he was going to make that mistake again.

"Try this one," said Ollivander in a voice that appeared encouraging as he carelessly pulled any old wand off the shelf behind him without looking.

It didn't even sputter.

"Oak and phoenix feather, eight inches."

Nothing.

"Balsawood and pigeon feather, seven and a quarter inches." (He'd been bored that day.)

Well…what do you think?

"Twelve inches, mahogany and three-ply unicorn hair." (_That_ would react for anyone.)

There was a faint suggestion of a glow when she swished it back and forth. Rather than snatching it out of her hand as he did with every other unsuitable customer (the wand chooses, naturally), he stared at it expectantly for a few minutes, waiting for something better to happen. At length he gave up. There followed a rapid-fire succession of different wands.

"Fir and heartstring! Pear wood and unicorn! Greenheart and Thestral hair! Pine and unicorn!"

Over the next few hours he made her try every single wand. Literally _every, single, wand_ in the shop. When the ranks of relatively ordinary wands were exhausted, he moved onto experimental (glass and veela hair), celebrity (Houdini's diamond encrusted teak and phoenix feather masterpiece), downright creepy (bloodstained elfin bone), and even novelty (dove feather core, ebony shaft with white boxwood capped ends) specimens.

By the time the gruelling gauntlet of trying-on-for-size was over, Marvela was ready to burst into tears. She'd got past the 'I must be special' stage and had been convinced she was a Squib for the last forty minutes.

Ollivander watched the first of several drops trickle down the child's face, and at last professionalism won out over conscience. He disappeared into the heavily padlocked stockroom at the back of the shop. Ella quit being patient and brave and began to sniffle.

Mabbeth Bransgorge knelt down to comfort her daughter. Edward Bransgorge swore colourfully about his wife's illegitimate brat and stomped out of the tiny, claustrophobic shop. He needed a beer or three at the Leaky Cauldron.

In his absence, the wand artisan returned with something cradled in his arms. It was locked in a steel box with a tamper-proof hex seal. Ollivander placed it carefully on the shop counter next to the till.

"Before I let you try this one…" he warned in his quiet, dusty voice, "I shall need to know the true name of its future owner."

Mother and daughter looked at each other with worried expressions.

"It's that or life as a Squib. I assure you this is all confidential."

"I-in that case…well…it's a long story…" Mabbeth started to shiver unconsciously, as she always did when this topic was raised.

"I don't need the history, only the name."

"Ah…The father placed a Naming on her…and so her birth certificate reads Marvela…uh…Marv_olo_ Slytherin."

Ollivander was stunned, despite the hunch he'd had all along. Nothing can prepare you for this kind of truth. "Tom Riddle's daughter?"

"Yes." It was said with finality. The spell of shock was broken when Mabbeth added, "he must have expected his heir to be a son."

* * *

Moving back to the present, the girl that was pretty in her childhood has grown up to take distinctly after her father in looks. Handsome rather than beautiful, she still needs a few more years of age before she will be able to carry off such a look elegantly. If she wants to look better right now, then she needs to wipe that stupid terrified look off her face.

She faced her father's nemesis, and they bowed to each other.

"_Petrificus Totalus!"_

"_Protego Corpus!"_

Marvela's first shot misfired and hit a classmate, knocking him to the floor beneath his desk in the grips of an all-body lockjaw. To Harry it looked like she hadn't even aimed. The Prefect had called this girl talented, so the only explanation was that she didn't want to hurt such a famous man as himself. _Ugh._ Still, the results on the classmate showed promise.

"Try again," he ordered.

"_Stupefy!_" shouted his opponent, reacting to his tone of voice and taking it more seriously than she'd intended. Her wand went spinning out of her hand and hit the far wall.

She blinked down at her empty hand then looked up at the Professor. He hadn't even raised his wand or opened his mouth. The class was laughing.

"Are you doing this badly deliberately?" he had to ask.

"No…" she said sheepishly, _so much for being sly._ "That one was an accident."

It had gone nearly as she'd hoped, but her cheeks still burned with embarrassment as she went to retrieve her wand and sat down again.

Just so long as she didn't let it become anger, she'd be fine.

Because if that happened, Professor Potter would definitely notice the little problem with her eyes…

* * *

Six or seven years ago, just after selling the same wand for the second time, Ollivander had broken his vow of confidentiality and revealed Ella's true identity to the source of all these troubles.

Ollivander sighed and crouched down before Fawkes, who still lived on a perch in the Headmaster's office. He thought back to that first wand and its owner, the second one whose wizard had been terribly damaged by the first and now, the new witch. He thought that the second wand had the power of the first, indeed, the second _wizard_ had the power of the first, thanks to that killing curse.

If the second had been tempted, he could have been as great and powerful and evil as the first. This was the truth that the wands themselves had whispered to their maker. And now, a young child-witch – almost pureblood – with a dark origin – and a nature that was unsullied, at least for now...

He finally looked the phoenix in the eye. The bird stared back, with an expression that could make one believe animals had souls, that they were wiser than humans. Magical creatures all shared that look. He'd never seen it from a Muggle's pet. He leaned a little closer. Opened his mouth and asked a strange question.

"Why do your wands go to potential Dark Wizards? Are you really a creature of light?"

The fowl of fire screeched quietly. A shed feather lifted itself into the air and began to write in a soft glow.

_Any wizard is potentially Dark._

"The daughter has inherited her father's wand. She has likely received his prodigious skills too, and may choose to continue his cause."

_Perhaps. I do not see the fate of my tailfeathers before it happens. For that matter, how did you come into possession of the Dark Lord's wand again?_

Ollivander merely shrugged, because that was a secret of wandlore. "Wands wend their way home," was all he said. "So you have no idea of the destiny in store for the girl?"

The phoenix shuffled on its perch. Then it cooed sweetly.

_Not telling._

The moon-eyed old man humphed irritably.

"You know what? I think you're jinxed. And your feathers are _definitely_ unlucky."

* * *

After the lesson, the heir of Slytherin slid her wand out of her sleeve, gazing blankly at its slightly scratched and patina-slick surface. Thirteen and a half inches of tensile yew wood, cutting tautly through the air until the beautiful little flick it gave at the end of each gesture. She knew _he_ had wielded in a different manner, but this was the way she thought of the phoenix feather wand. She loved it dearly, as purebloods usually did their wands; yet even though it had been purified of its former owner she remained hyperconscious of the bloodshed it had created. Not least its history with Harry Potter.

After school, she wanted to specialise in Dark Arts, Defence Against and Remedial Magics. But she couldn't get through her NEWTs with a wand that repelled her teacher's, nor could she afford flashy showdowns between the two wands with the twin cores for four lessons every week.

Not to mention revision sessions.

Damn.

She'd _never_ get that Outstanding now.

* * *

**Chapter notes:**

Forget Dumbledore…Fawkes was the one running the joint!

If déjà vu means 'already seen', then déjà senti means 'already felt'.

How are the anti-Sue precautions holding up? She's not beautiful, she's not loved by all, and people aren't tripping over themselves to give her fantastic weapons. …Okay, she does have a choice of four surnames (Bransgorge, Vixerus, Riddle or Slytherin [Voldemort had a big ego and an obsession with bloodlines, ok? He's not going to want his heir named after a Muggle family and no one likes the Gaunts.]) but having a boy's name on your birth certificate is not always appreciated by girls.

ROCket Racing Broom references the giant mythical bird called a roc.

Wands: downright creepy (bloodstained elfin bone) is nicked from Bone White Butterfly's awesome fanfic 'Elfin'; novelty (dove feather core, ebony shaft with white boxwood capped ends) is basically a Muggle magician's wand.

Review. Please. …Please.

_Alliriyan_


	3. The Snake

_I don't own the Harry Potter franchise – I just like to mess with it._

**Inheritance**

Chapter Three: The Snake

They were a few weeks into the spring term and Professor Potter was currently handling a large, lethal-looking snake. Its smooth dry coils were looped around him, tense heads following every movement in the room. Marvela's mouth went dry. _Oh no_, went a sixth, seventh or eighth sense; _this could be really bad._

"This," announced Professor Potter in a clear, calm voice; "is a Runespoor. Basically a three-headed serpent. Each head has a separate brain and a distinct personality. In the wild –"

"Professor Potter," a hand rocketed into the air, attached to an overenthusiastic fangirl; "can you really speak Parseltongue?"

_I'm developing a phobia of raised hands…_thought Harry glumly.

"Not since…" he frowned and decided to sidestep the whole subject of Voldemort and Horcruxes and transferred Dark skills; "not instinctively anymore but I decided to relearn Parseltongue the same way you do a foreign language."

"_Why?_"

"Because snakes have a great sense of humour," he grinned.

Marvela assumed that was a generalisation because this snake's heads were bickering like old ladies. It sounded like one was hyper, one was stoned and one was pissed off.

'_Hey, hey, you know what we should do? We should-'_

'_Wooaah…look at that light…over there…it's so sparkly…'_

'_I hate you both, shut up. What we need to do is escape and find out where they keep the pets. I'm hungry.'_

'_You want to leave the nice man? He used to be a real Parselmouth you know! He'll feed us whatever we ask for.'_

'_I hate the nice man. I want to eat his students. And you! You're too laid back about all this.'_

'_Sparkles…la~la~la~…'_

Without realising, she'd become totally absorbed in the snake's conversation with itself and missed everything the teacher had said. Now he was standing by her desk and the Runespoor was regarding her. She shifted her arm to cover up the lack of notes on her parchment.

'_I want to eat this one,'_ said the critic-head, stretching towards her.

"Like hell you will," she retorted and slapped a hand over her mouth. Potter jerked round, making all the snakeheads complain loudly.

"Did you say something?" he frowned, bottle-green eyes clashing with the vivid orange scales of the snake.

Marvela came up with a cunning cover. "I was saying 'pshht'. To the Runespoor. To make it go away. One of its heads was too close."

The teacher thought about this for a moment. "If you want to say go away, say '_ssschaaast_'."

"How do you say 'open'?" someone asked smartly. Everyone laughed. Even Harry himself.

"No…" he grinned; "no trips to the Chamber of Secrets today."

'_Are you deaf? The girl's a Parselmouth. She spoke to us!'_

'_Anyone can hiss,'_ he replied, feeling slightly displeased and not sure why. There were a few things about Vixerus that nagged at his instinct for trouble. Faked inability at Defence Against the Dark Arts at such a crucial time in her education, a name like Marvela so soon after the infamy of one Tom Marvolo Riddle, and the way her gamine features reminded him of something he'd seen in a Pensieve long ago…but it was ridiculous to pin such labels on a girl he barely knew.

He placed the Runespoor back into its tank and moved on to the next part of his lesson. It was a double today, and when the hour changed he'd be teaching them the _Protego Corpus_ charm he'd used in the first lesson. Caged, the triple-headed serpent heaped its coils up against the glass wall and hissed in unison, as loudly as it could.

"The purpose of _Protego Corpus_ is to give you a magical barrier that acts like armour, rather than a shield. In this way it has as much in common with the wide area, all-sides protection of _Protego Totalum_ as with the simple _Protego_. This sadly means that it requires more time and concentration to cast. But rest assured that if you can master this, you have much less chance of being stabbed in the back or hit by a ricochet."

Several students gulped. That sounded like the voice of experience.

"For a first practice, I just want to you all to master the intonation. It's one of those spells with possible side effects. You know the ones."

_Now_ they were scared.

As the familiar bustle and irregular chanting of a magical classroom began to fill the room, Harry tried to figure out whether Vixerus had been affected by the incessant jeering of the Runespoor. It had been clamouring for her attention all lesson. As far as he could tell she seemed oblivious.

- And then, when she thought no one was looking, he saw her flick a rude hand gesture towards the Runespoor's tank.

_Well that's not going to work, stupid girl…_ He thought. _Why would a snake understand hand gestures?_

But moments later a Ravenclaw standing near the snake tank mimicked her gesture with a cheerful grin. Rather than a clue towards Marvela's dark heritage, it seemed to be some kind of private joke. _Oh no,_ realised Harry with a sense of rising horror; _I'm turning into Madeye Moody!_

_

* * *

  
_

It was after dinner when the DADA classroom was deserted that she returned. Sliding the glass lid off of the tank, she whispered in a strange language. The Runespoor rose to meet her. _'Greetings, Parselmouth;'_ said the serpent accusingly. Her answer was to reach forward and grasp two of its necks tightly just behind the head. Shocked, it tried to pull away.

'_Let me explain something to you,'_ said the Heir of Slytherin in a dangerously hushed voice.

'_I still have a third head to bite you with, fool;'_ it hissed, again trying to wrench itself from her grip.

'…_But he's asleep…'_

The Runespoor fell silent and still. She had a point.

'_If you cross me again, I will rip you in two halves. If you try to tell Professor Potter that I'm a Parselmouth, I will cut you into tiny pieces whilst you're still alive. And if you cause me to speak snake in front of people just one more time, I will tear all three of your tongues out. Understand?'_

'_No,'_ retorted her victim. _'Why are you hiding your abilities?'_

Marvela knew she was getting too angry, because her eyes were starting to itch and burn. The snake saw it when they changed and grew slightly afraid.

'_Those eyes…we've all heard of _those_ eyes…'_

'_Then obey them.'_

'_You must be the spawn of the Dark Lord, or imitating his ambitions and magics – you expect me to keep this secret?!'_

She clenched her fists tighter in warning. _'I am You-Know-Who's daughter, yes. And if people find out, especially at Hogwarts, I'll be forced to spend my life paying for his crimes. If Harry Potter finds out, he will _kill_ me! It's already far too visible in my face, my wand, the way none of my spells work against him whether I intend it or not…the fact I'm in Slytherin when all of my mother and stepfather's family have been Ravenclaws…if you convince him I'm a Parselmouth he'll figure out the rest and then my life is over.'_

Her manner had gradually changed from threatening to begging. She was clearly petrified of her new teacher, and the Runespoor might have felt pity if she wasn't strangling it at the time.

'_Fine,'_ hissed the serpent at length. _'I'll keep your secret.'_

'_Of course you will,'_ she raised an eyebrow, attitude returning; _'or you'll be three normal snakes very soon. Not to mention extremely dead.'_

Before returning to her House, Marvela pulled a vial of eye drops from a pocket and tipped her head back. She squeezed three droplets into each eye, blinking furiously.

Aah…the prickling had stopped. Instead of looking like Voldemort's female counterpart, she just looked like she'd been crying.

Now to get back before the caretaker caught her.

* * *

**Chapter notes:**

The Runespoor is from that World Book Day mini-edition of Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them. I can't remember if there's been one in the canon. The three heads are meant to be a critic, a planner and a dreamer.

The ability to learn Parseltongue is suggested by both Dumbledore and Ron.

Gamine is a French word that means boyish or tomboy.

_Protego Corpus_ is a variation I made up.

Please review/flame/gush with adoration…I don't mind, so long as you send it. : )


	4. The Diary

_I don't own the Harry Potter franchise – I just like to mess with it._

**Inheritance**

Chapter Four: The Diary

The next morning she woke extremely groggily and as ever reached immediately for her diary. Her eyes and the space behind them ached. A questing hand knocked the diary off the bedside cabinet. Leaning out of the bed she managed to retrieve it, but not without disturbing her cat that had been asleep by her feet.

The blue-grey pedigree Chartreux opened its rich orange eyes a slither and grumbled at her. Seven years ago she'd named the cat after a randomly selected Chocolate Frog card.

The card had been Morgan le Fay, one of the darkest in the entire collection.

This gives an idea of the kind of luck Marvela has.

"Are you awake yet, Ella?" called Frieda, dragging open the four-poster's curtains without waiting for an answer. _I really don't trust that Sorting Hat_, the girl had once confided to her journal. _Who would let a people-person into Slytherin? And it wouldn't let me be a Ravenclaw, the bas-_

"Yes, just about," she replied nicely.

"What happened to your eyes?! They're all bloodshot again!" Judging by the aghast expression on the prefect's face, they looked pretty painful. Well fair enough. They _did_ hurt.

She scrubbed her face with the sleeve of her pyjamas. "I got a lot of soap in them last night and irritated my condition," lied Marvela in an embarrassed tone of voice; "could you pass me my eye drops? I think they're in my robe pocket."

As Frieda obliged, Marvela disenchanted her diary and opened it, filling in the day's date and asking the empty page why she was friends with an early riser and morning person. Frieda seemed far too charming to belong to the dastardly House of Slytherin, until you realised she'd received the post of Prefect by being a genius at manipulating people. At least she had a strong sense of duty too, though Marvela often wondered if that was why they hanged out together – because the Prefect felt pressured to take care of the loner. Certainly they hadn't got on nearly so well in previous years.

She wrote all of these things down in the diary, having no one else to divulge her thoughts to. It was heavily sheathed in charms and jinxes to guarantee privacy and protect her secrets. The rumour of Tom Riddle's evil memoir niggled at her every time she touched quill to parchment, but the guilt was not enough to make her stop. The journal was a vital way for her to vent all her minor angsts.

Still, she'd never enchanted it to reply to her daily tales of small woes, or even fill in dates and names automatically as was common with other witches. That felt like a step too close to the past.

"Here," said Frieda, handing her housemate the eye drops after the typical long search through another witch's pockets, and all the bizarre miscellany such searches always produced.

"Thanks," said Marvela; the fact that she now owed her peer an unnamed future favour went unvoiced.

It was a lazy Saturday, so long as the large stack of homework by her bag was ignored, and thoughts of the Sorting Hat inspired her to flick back to the beginning of the diary and see if anything had changed.

There was the first entry, stating frankly that she did not expect to use the diary much and could not wait to learn real magic. The second entry, written shakily on the Hogwarts Express, showed her sudden understanding of what she was in for. Trying to live as an apparently normal witch right in the middle of three hundred-odd strangers with magical abilities and nosy dispositions. From that moment forwards she'd been on edge.

She hadn't let her guard down in seven years.

* * *

The Sorting Hat had never met a more petrified pupil. She sat so gingerly on the stool it seemed she was about to run away, twisting her child's hands round and round like an anxious old man. She had gone chalk white the moment before the Deputy Headmaster had announced her name in ringing tones. And now the Sorting Hat was sifting through her head, seeing what made her tick.

"Vixerus, hnn…lots of Ravenclaw heritage…" he detected a glimmer of hope in the pits of her mind. And next to it, the mass of fear. And next to that the sparking memories that explained the presence of the fear. "Oh _my_…" crowed the Hat quietly.

"Ravenclaw, please? My entire family were Ravenclaws. Just hurry up and put me in Ravenclaw!" she whispered urgently, quailing under the gaze of the sum total of all the students and teachers of Hogwarts. She tucked her feet behind the rung of the battered little stool, her shoulders growing more hunched and timid by the second.

"Why, look at this! And this! Oh, _very_ nice…" the Hat was having far too much fun. She could feel its magic poking around inside her brain. It felt squeamish. "It's been far too long since I saw a set-up like this. Like my old friend – countless years ago – so sad when these rifts are born…"

"Please," she muttered through gritted teeth; "say Ravenclaw." The Deputy Headmaster was miming looking at his watch. Wiseass.

The ancient fabric of the Hat crumpled briefly against the crown of her head, in what she assumed to be a sigh.

"Well, I can't argue with an Heir…" moaned the dusty old headpiece. She sighed in relief. "Of…"

"**SLYTHERIN!"**

"WHAT?!" she shrieked, but it was downed out by the Hat's own roar and the cheering of the House tables.

"And that's final," said the Hat smugly, she was in too much of a stupor to remember to take it off. "You've been raised to be shy, but you have plenty of potential. And…although you're fairly smart, you're just not _abstract_ enough for Ravenclaw."

Before she could argue, the evil pointy hat was snatched off her head by the teacher and placed carefully on the next candidate. Crushed, Marvela trudged towards her table and sat down where the then-Prefect had made room for her. He'd seen her lack of enthusiasm very clearly.

"Welcome to Slytherin, Vixerus;" he said warmly, holding his tongue on the 'aren't you from a Ravenclaw family' question. Being put in a different House to her parents and ancestors had obviously been a blow. She wasn't being very subtle, however, with her hands clasped to her head and her eyes wide like the Scream.

_The Hat could see Voldemort lurking inside me!_ She was panicking. _If even a hat can tell, they'll ALL find out!_

The Prefect coughed loudly and finally drew her attention. Blushing, Marvela closed her mouth and lowered her hands. "I'm one of your Prefects, Russell Stiltzkin. I advise you to ignore everything you've heard about Slytherin and take things as they come. We're a House of quality, high organisation and even higher standards." He'd prepared this little speech earlier, for the Muggleborns and black sheep that hadn't expected to be Sorted into the infamous Slytherin. It wasn't that bad. Without Riddles and Malfoys in the ranks the House was visibly mellower. "Just focus on drawing out your best qualities and you'll definitely achieve and succeed."

His audience of one smiled, and wisely chose not to mention the fact that she _was_ Slytherin, by blood however unwanted, and that all her best qualities would probably be those associated with Pure Evil. Damn it.

Stiltzkin indicated the feast that had suddenly appeared, and told her to eat up.

* * *

The not-very-neatly scribbled words faded from the page without warning as Morgan jumped into her lap and yowled, kneading at the diary with smoky paws.

"Myoww!"

"Gah! Would you stop it!"

"Yowr!"

"Get off my diary!"

"Mrowwww…"

"Alright, alright, I'll feed you…_tsch_…move…"

"…_woww_…"

She dragged the book out from beneath the cat and closed it, retying the purple ribbon into a special knot that would trigger the protective jinxes. That done she caved in and stroked the fat feline adoringly; baby-talking in a way that was totally unbecoming for the Heir of Slytherin.

"Hello gorgeous…how's my Morgy-fay today…are you hungry? Are you _hun_gry? Aawww, you're purring, you big fatty. What do you want to gorge yourself on for breakfast, hmm? Ow! Don't scratch! How _long_ are your _claws?!_"

Marvela glanced up to find Frieda watching her with a mixture of humour and exasperation, one eyebrow raised. The other girls in their dorm had gone down for breakfast ages ago. She grinned awkwardly. "I'll be down in a minute?"

"Whatever, it's the weekend. But could you do me a favour? If you see my toad, catch it and bring it back up here. Bye!"

_Aha._ Thought Marvela as her friend hurried away to the Great Hall. _The return favour._ And as usual it was totally disproportionate to the meagre debt of finding eye drops. _Cheers, I don't think._

"Miaowrrr!!"

* * *

**Chapter notes:**

I can't think of much to say today, this chapter is just transitional with a flashback to jazz it up…

Morgan le Fay is one of the evil Chocolate Frog cards possibly from the books, definitely from the games. A Chartreux is a smoke-grey cat with big orange eyes, they're gorgeous and I want one.

Russell Stiltzkin is a reference to Rumpelstiltzkin because it's hard to think of interesting wizard names.

And the Sorting Hat is the most malicious piece of millinery since the Archchancellor's Hat in _Sourcery_.

_Alliriyan_


	5. The Chamber

_I don't own the Harry Potter franchise – I just like to mess with it._

**Inheritance**

Chapter Five: The Chamber

Myrtle's bathroom is not a nice place to go in, not with the constant floods, the ingrained stink that makes a person gag, and of course, Myrtle's moaning. It was a last resort for anyone, and the additional history of Dark magic and violence equalled an absolute taboo area for Marvela. She'd entered it perhaps four times over seven years.

But today she'd been _bursting_.

She washed her hands quickly, avoiding the dodgy tap with its engraving of a serpent, and patted her hands dry on her robes. She couldn't help glancing at the infamous sink from time to time, however, because the moniker 'Chamber of Secrets' was just far too tempting. A Chamber built by the Founder of Hogwarts, specifically for his heirs. What could be more fascinating? She'd love to explore it…but something would certainly go wrong, and she couldn't afford that. As the legacy of the Dark Lord, it would be impossible to survive exposure to the entire wizarding community's lingering hatred. You can't help who you're born as. You can only be glad you've lasted this long.

She just got sick of reality looming over her _all the time_.

"Please flush the toilet for me Peeves…" The words came suddenly and startled Marvela, not to mention how bizarre a phrase it was. What a terrible mental image. The voice was squeaky, mincing, ever so slightly breathless.

When it continued to whinge she realised she was listening to Moaning Myrtle.

"Won't you just do me this one little favour? Everyone hates me. Even the other ghosts." There was a sniffle that sounded faked.

"_Especially_ the other ghosts, we have to put up with you forever!" It was a real treat to hear the poltergeist being irritated rather than irritating. "It's your bloody toilet, you flush it!"

"I can't," simpered Myrtle; "I'm feeling particularly delicate and intangible today. I can't even make splashes in the toilet bowls." Seventy years of afterlife in a bathroom had left her totally unabashed by her habits and habitat. "There's an icky poisonous toad in my favourite U-bend and it's making me feel terribly weak."

Marvela could _hear_ Peeves's look of incredulous disbelief. "You're a _ghost._ It doesn't _matter_ if the toad is poisonous. Idiot."

"Oh, rub it in, Mr I-became-a-ghost-just-to-spite-people; I'm well aware that I'm dead!" The transparent girl was now sobbing in a pretentious manner, if that was possible. "The problem is having to sit there all the time inside a solid living object. You know how uncomfortable it gets after a while! Just flush the damn thing!"

"Don' wanna."

"I will follow you everywhere you go and talk and talk and talk and talk and tell Filch where to find you and what you've done and I'll get the Bloody Baron to slice you into tiny bits and I will be your own personal waking nightmare," threatened Myrtle darkly.

There was a drawn-out groan, and the sound of rushing water.

Marvela picked up her bag and turned to leave.

Behind her a plughole croaked.

"_Ri-ri-ri-ribbika!_"

Marvela halted.

That was a very distinctive ribbit.

That was the ribbit of Frieda's very venomous, very expensive, very rare Ukrainian singing toad.

The one she'd promised to catch if she found it.

Oh dear.

Marvela Slytherin swivelled and stared at the sink as the volume of the croaking grew less and less. The toad must be getting further away. Through the network of pipes and…into the Chamber of Secrets, perhaps?

She approached the faulty faucet slowly. A sly smile started to play around her lips.

Leaning down, she pictured the Runespoor in her mind and hissed out the sibilant password.

It was the only time she'd ever have an excuse to enter the Chamber of Secrets her ancestor had bequeathed her.

* * *

The Hogwarts Founders clearly had deep-seated and terrifying issues with thrill-seeking, thought Marvela as she shrieked down a granite flume and skidded to a halt in a deep drift of bones. Moving staircases? Forbidden Forests? Giant Squids? Incredibly steep pipes that plummeted into the very foundations of the sprawling citadel? Flat on her back, gasping, with grazed palms, she swore to invest in landing cushions if she ever came down here again. Judging by the smell, the damp and the morbid décor; that wasn't very likely. And why had Salazar placed his grand hideout beneath a girl's bathroom anyway?

The dank walls echoed with a lonely, tuneful ribbit and she grinned to herself. All she had to do was catch the toad and return before anyone found the entrance open. And surely there enough time to explore just a little…

Clambering to her feet, she set off in the only direction available, shoes crunching into tiny skeletons unpleasantly with every step. But a complete Potions, DADA and Herbology education at Hogwarts hardens a person to that kind of thing. As a general rule, Marvela only had weak nerves when it came to the issue of her own identity. Then again the idea of Voldemort fathering a child would put anyone off their dinner.

After a long passageway full of unsettling carved gateways, fallen rubble and enormous shed snake skins; the corridor opened out, and she briefly forgot how to think.

The cavern was vast, softly lit with everlasting fires, green-hued with centuries of moss and lichen; every surface sculpted into serpents and solemn faces. It was majestic and imposing. It spoke of ancient times and Salazar's reverence for perfection. It was beautiful.

It was empty.

Except for one Ukrainian toad hopping gleefully towards the largest face's open mouth, the chamber was devoid of any treasure more portable than a fifty-foot-high wall.

Marvela pretended to ignore her crushing disappointment that untold numbers of former generations had already ransacked the place. She wondered how many of the statues hid secret openings into other halls instead. Logically the easiest to explore would be the one already opened, and so she followed Frieda's toad into her forefather's gaping maw.

With only the slap of an amphibian's feet against the stone floor to guide her, she was swallowed by darkness.

* * *

After walking into something and stubbing her toe, Marvela swore loudly and cast _lumos_. So what if the frog knew where it was going (she _was_ suspicious that it had been in the Chamber before, because it went missing over a month ago and was very confident in the large place for such a small animal), humans tended to benefit from being able to see where they were going.

The passage was spacious; worn smooth all around by the rasp-like scales of the Basilisk. It was also shorter than expected. In the distance she could hear a tremendous buzzing sound. A sudden stench meeting her nostrils nearly knocked her out and she was forced to perform a Bubble-Head Charm before continuing. It knocked her confidence too.

As she exited the tunnel she had to pull up abruptly to avoid plunging into a deep pit. It was an underground canyon, filled with stinking round rocks that had somehow attracted dense swarms of flies. The King of Serpents' private den was colossal, with a ceiling of natural rock and stalactites. Once again she stood and gawped, the awe now curdled with disgust. The flies were everywhere, crowding the air, crawling on every surface.

"_Ribika-ri-ri-ri-ribika!_"

Marvela nearly tumbled over the side in shock. Frieda's stupid pet was perched beside her on one of those round boulders, looking immensely pleased with itself. All it had to do was open its mouth and dinner would fly straight in. At least the creature was wise enough not to approach the lip of the pit. She didn't fancy going in there after it.

She gave the area five more seconds of her attention before deciding it was just too gross to stomach. "Come on, Kermit," she sighed; "we'd better get out of here. I need to get in your owner's good books."

"_Ribika!_"

The singing toad's stone seat suddenly shuddered violently. With a look of pure surprise, the pet toppled off and fell over the brink. It gave a panicked ribbit, dropping down to a rocky demise.

"_Accio_ toad!" snapped Marvela, drawing her wand in an instant. The amphibian reversed direction in midair, flying back up and landing neatly in her open bag. This was going to get slime all over her books, but touching that particular toad barehanded was sometimes lethal. Prefect's pet secured, she now studied the rattling boulder with growing trepidation. Rocks aren't meant to move like that on their own.

And that distinct mottled green colour was suspicious too.

And it was perfectly round.

And that toad had been coming down here and sitting on it and gorging itself on flies for anything up to a month.

Marvela shook her head in horror.

"Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, NO!"

* * *

Running back into the main chamber, Marvela searched the room frantically for some kind of guidance. All she could see were impassive sculptures and the mostly submerged, twenty-five-year-old corpse of the legendary Basilisk. Looking at the sheer magnitude of the skeletal remains, she blanched.

Was one of those going to hatch out of that egg?

How many of the rocks in that cavity were Basilisk eggs?

How many _toads_ could get in here?!

To repress a sense of rising panic, she sat down on the chilly flagstones and hugged her schoolbag tightly. Her mind was whirling. She'd been down here for half an hour at most and had already discovered a potential army of giant deadly snake-monsters.

…Typical.

Marvela had always had bad luck.

As she began to calm down, she realized there was only one course of action to take. She couldn't tell anyone she'd been down here, so she would have to destroy the eggs, all of them, all by herself.

On that note, she hoped Peeves and Myrtle hadn't seen her open the Chamber of Secrets. Without realizing she squeezed her bag so tightly the toad inside squawked in protest. If she didn't finish up here soon, people would start looking for her, and…

Gripping her wand tightly, she stood up and marched back into the snake's room to do battle against the unborn Basilisks.

* * *

The first _reducto_ ricocheted off the shell of the wobbling egg. Marvela dived out of the way, narrowly dodging the rebounded ray of light. The hem of her school robe vaporized. She coughed, shaken.

_Hopefully only the incubated eggs are that tough..._

She took a moment to cast _protego corpus_ before continuing. This time she aimed her hexes at the far-off rocks and egg clutches that carpeted the base of the hollow. This time the spells were successful. This time the offending items were reduced to dust.

_Phew._

"_Incendio_!_ Deprimo_!_ Reducto_!_ Confringo_!_ Diffindo_!_ Expulso_!" she chanted, falling into a rhythm of obliteration. It was getting quite fun to smash stuff up without fear of reprisal. And for the good of Hogwarts, of course. It was brilliant practice too, after half a term of acting incompetent in her best (although not favourite) subject.

"_Reducto_!_ Reducto_!_ Reducto_!"

Eggs were exploding everywhere. The noise was like an avalanche. It seemed that the one at the edge of the pit was the only one lucky enough to have its own toad, because there were no more ricochets. The hordes of flies had gone insane. It was almost impossible to aim through the chaos.

She recast her Bubble-Head and barrier charms, soldiering on. _The smell… _thought Marvela queasily between bubbles. _The eggs stink to attract flies to make sure frogs and toads sit on them. I suppose it works but it's stupid in an underground cavern only rats can reach. But I should be grateful, I guess…that's the reason we're not overrun with baby Basilisks…_

By the time she was (as far as she could tell in such a huge space) finished; she was covered in dust, exhausted, and her throat was aching. She'd missed at least two lessons. All that was left was the toad's egg. Several more attempts to destroy that one had failed, and she was certain the deep black crack now fracturing its shell had naught to do with her efforts.

The Basilisk was hatching. Slowly, but surely.

* * *

She had to go to the teachers. She had to. There was no other choice. She had a living, breathing, about-to-hatch Basilisk secreted away beneath her bed and no amount of _tergio_ would wash the weight of responsibility from her mind. Although she did finally look presentable again.

It was still lesson time, so no one would be coming to the dorms for a few hours. But she didn't know how to find the Headmaster, the Deputy-Head was teaching and of all the staff most able to help her only two were free. Those two were Rubeus Hagrid and Harry Potter.

Hagrid's classes clearly hadn't improved over the years, because Marvela chose to go to the guy that killed her dad instead.

Halfway towards the man's office, she was taking a shortcut over a battlemented bridge when the suicidal nature of confessing to Harry Potter suddenly hit her. _Great. Just bloody great._ She heaved a huge groan and flopped over the parapet, arms dangling, hair tangling in the wind. "There's no hope…I might as well start designing my Evil Attire™ and training my minions. Who am I to argue with a thousand years of well established nefarious tradition?" she muttered to herself.

Pressing fear of the monster under her bed pushed her onwards, and soon she was standing in front of Professor Potter's office. She fidgeted with indecision for several minutes; eventually entered without knocking because she froze every time she raised her hand. It was empty apart from a few cages and family photos. She stepped over a small heap of fan mail and love letters that had been left in a neglectful heap on the floor. Walking straight over to Professor Potter, she stood in front of him, concentrating on breathing steadily. Lungs in, lungs out, wasn't the air deliciously cool down here! Steeling herself, she said, "Professor, can I ask you something?"

He looked up, and as he focused on her she saw a now-familiar flicker of annoyance cross his face. "What's troubling you, Miss Vixerus?" He adjusted his glasses and scanned her face very intently, with a faint frown. This student had been on edge around him since day one – so why approach now, appearing tenser than ever? _She looks guilty._

Crap, now she actually had to spit it out. She was very eager to just evacuate her Defence teacher's company. But the thought of what she had found prompted the incredibly hesitant words forth. "Um, it's about the Chamber of Secrets…sir." She watched a fire-crab turning the water in its tank to steam rather than see his face. The sound of a stack of books being set down very, very carefully reached her ears. Flicking a glance back at her teacher, she saw an ambiguous expression. Her instincts were setting off alarm bells.

"What about it?" he asked. Quiet. Dangerous.

"I was just wondering…if you knew…the Basilisk…"

"What about the Basilisk?" His voice was lethal. Her eyes widened in fear and she shot another terrified look at his face. When she saw it she began to edge away towards the door. Breaking into a cold sweat she managed to utter the end of the sentence.

"I-it, um, an e-……itlaidanegg."

* * *

**Chapter notes:**

Ghosts: They can influence things in their death territory on a good day, how else does Myrtle keep flooding the girls' loos? But she was feeling fragile so she had to ask the poltergeist, who can always affect physical objects, instead.

Ukrainian singing toads…don't exist…anywhere…that I know of. Not even in canon. Its name is not Kermit, though.

Marvela is curious. Yes. Her life and attitude towards Dark Arts is 99% paranoia, 1% but-that's-kinda-cool, and today the 1% won out. As for the destructo-fest, her daddy is Voldemort, of course she's good at blowing stuff up. And why does she approach Harry? She considers the threat of Basilisks greater than that of her misadventures. She was panicking.

And this particular Basilisk was a Queen of Serpents. An un-toad-ed egg appears to be a rock, an incubated egg gains some mythical creature properties. Just like giants being hard to Stun.

I see Harry as drawing his teaching style from Lupin, Moody, and some bookwork.

Please R&R! Constructive criticism is very welcome. Flames are used to burn badfic.

_Alliriyan_


	6. The Past

_I don't own the Harry Potter franchise – I just like to mess with it._

**Inheritance**

Chapter Six: The Past

Harry was completely nonplussed. He really didn't know how to react to that kind of news.

"An…egg?" he repeated, momentarily forgetting to ask her how the hell she got into the Chamber anyway.

"Several actually!" agreed Marvela, trying to sound cheerful as a panicked reaction. "But I demolished the others, don't worry…"

"…"

"…"

"…"

She coughed.

"I'm sure you already know this, but, uh, You-Know-Who's bloodline wasn't the _only_ one with a gift for Parseltongue. And I was in Myrtle's bathroom, and I heard them flush Frieda's toad down the loo, and I promised to catch it for her and so then I opened the Chamber of Secrets, and followed it, only it went into this really nasty gross place full of flies and then I realised they were all eggs, the rocks; and then I blew them up but one was hatching 'cause the toad's been missing so long and it deflected all my spells and…and…yeah, that's what happened. Nothing sinister!"

Harry just didn't know what to say.

"You think chasing someone's frog is a legitimate reason to open the bloody _Chamber_ of freaking _Secrets_?!!"

"I – "

"Last time it was opened my best friend got Petrified, and I nearly died, and Voldemort possessed my future wife!!! A _frog_?!"

Oh. Sore subject then.

She opened her mouth, closed it, then raised a finger. "I am pretty sure I mastered _protego corpus_, though."

He gawped at her. "Oh really."

"Yeah, really!"

"…That must be a nice change after getting nothing but Dreadfuls all term."

She made an expression that said 'no comment'. What could she possibly reply to that, without blowing her cover? All she could do was ignore the man's shrewd observations and push the 'Parseltongue's not _that_ rare! Ahaha?!' excuses.

A second long, calculating silence fell between them. Both were running over the conversation in their minds. Marvela was inclined to think that Professor Potter was in some kind of shock, because he'd only focused on the least significant aspects of the matter, namely the toad and her deplorable DADA grade. Harry, on the other hand, was doing what he did best: jumping to vast conclusions based on very little evidence and a great deal of intuition.

"…I'll be frank," he said at great length. _You are incredibly suspicious._ "If you can look me in the eye and say that all of this is not some ridiculous prank, I will come and help you out. I know very well how much precious time can be lost by doubtful teachers."

Scared of the natural killer she'd left lurking in her room, she looked him in the eyes as requested and began to admit her guilt.

His green eyes.

Piercing emerald orbs that suddenly filled her vision.

Green surrounded her and looked straight through her and deep into her – it felt like she'd been shrunk and trapped in a wine bottle.

The green could see into her soul.

Had he bewitched her?

Was this an enchantment?

* * *

The instant Harry's Legilimency made a chink in Marvela's mental armour; the effect was that of bursting a balloon. To be exact, more like exploding a pressurised steel tank.

In terms of venting worries and stress, the diary just wasn't enough. Rather than being indistinct and difficult to navigate, her mind opened up and flooded into him.

He drowned in a sea of memories.

"Daddy? Daddieeeeeeee! Daddy, come look!"

The giant grunted and turned away from her. "Don't call me that," rumbled the tall man. "Just don't talk to me." He walked off, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. Young children recognised this as the 'ew, yuck' pose.

The little girl watched him leave then latched her attention onto her mother. "Mummy, you like pikcha?" She held up her pink, green and orange scrawled masterpiece, not even thinking to ask why Daddy didn't like her. It was normal.

* * *

The girl had discovered mirrors, and also noticed how her playmates had the exact same eyes as their mothers, or their father's hair colour. Excited by this, she'd gone to check whether she looked more like Mummy or Daddy…but oddly, found no similarities at all.

Her hair was straight and black. Her nose was, or would be, fairly long and straight. Her mouth was wide and slim. She thought her smile was nice and big too. But these things were different to her parents. As she continued to search for things in common with them, and failed to find anything, she began to feel a little bothered and angry.

Just like normal, when she grew upset, a headache started to pressure her behind the eyes; the eyes themselves stinging and watering. She really hated the way she cried so easily. Whenever she wanted to be mad or argue with people, she'd start crying. It made her feel pathetic like she couldn't even express herself properly.

It always happened when she asked her parents why she barely ever got to see her friends. She would have to be as good as gold for weeks before, and when they came she had to share everything, and never get offended.

Now, looking in the mirror at her own distress, she finally began to get an inkling of _why_.

The burning in her eyes had made them all bloodshot. But not just that, the red was spreading across the entire surface, whites and irises. Her pupils were dilating and contracting wildly until they suddenly shrank to black slits. It hurt.

"Mummy!" she wailed, running out of the room. "My eyes are bleeding!"

* * *

She was eight when it was all explained to her. It still didn't make sense, but it was explained. Her mother sat down with her, her father loomed at the side of the couch but was not gracious enough to join them.

They were so impatient to tell her. They'd been aching to get this weight off their chests for years.

"Ella…love…Daddy, is not _your_ daddy. He is your little brother's father. But he is not yours."

"Why?" asked the girl plaintively. "Why not? Then who is my father?"

Pause.

"Your…father…went away a long time ago. He doesn't matter. We're only telling you so that you know the truth. That's all. Nothing is going to change because of this."

It was cursory to a fault. All it told her was that there was a reason Daddy didn't like her, which was something she'd never expected anyway.

Bewildered, she hid away in her room for the rest of the night. That night during her dreams she released some of the most potent accidental magic her family had ever seen or heard of. After that night, they became afraid of her. Paranoia settled in.

Ever since then, all that they gave her was in order to counteract her unspoken heritage.

* * *

As the years passed so the mystery grew less.

She learned that her real father was dead.

She learned that she'd been unwanted.

She learned that her mother had been raped.

She learned that the man had only wanted to secure the continuation of his bloodline.

She learned that the man was the Dark Lord Voldemort.

She learned that her mother and stepfather had in truth tried to abort her. But Voldemort was not so careless with the fate of his 'pureblood' heir – the abortive magic had curdled with the protective charms the Dark Lord had laid upon the woman he exploited. She had been born late after two and a half years of a kind of limbo dormancy and many complications.

She learned that, having used impure necromantic magic to resurrect his body, he'd not really been human after he came back. So they had no idea what she might inherit from him: the way her eyes mutated being an evident example of this.

She learned that she should be afraid of herself.

The mystery grew less, but the stigma never diminished.

* * *

And at length Harry saw how today this girl had gone into the Chamber of Secrets, knowing only a handful of rumours about the events he had lived twenty-five years ago. Because if she'd known that Voldemort had once lurked down there, she would never have entered the place; that was clear.

He felt her powerful need to comprehend her Slytherin ancestry. To know exactly what her father was and how far he could affect her life, this man who cheated death. And everything that poured from her mind into his was tainted with fear.

* * *

Harry came back to himself. He looked at his pupil, but no longer with the invasive stare of a Legilimens. She didn't seem to be breathing.

It was hardly surprising. That had gone far beyond the simple skimming of her intentions he'd aimed for. Was it because of her years of unvoiced stress or…

_Because of that link I used to have with _him_…my mind is still weak to others. Especially hers. Her mind feels so like his._

Marvela abruptly tried to bolt from the room. Harry grabbed her wrist, dragging her back. They'd both forgotten the Basilisk's egg.

The girl gaped at him in terror. She had no excuses now. He was going to destroy her.

The teacher gave her an odd look in return. He scrubbed his free hand over the lightning scar on his forehead, adjusted his round glasses and sighed.

"You want to know how similar you are to Voldemort, right?" he asked plainly. "I'm the best person to tell you."

Oh. He wasn't going to kill her. Oh. Oh…

She breathed.

Oh, thank goodness.

"Sit down," said Harry Potter in a kind tone, releasing her arm and pointing to a chair. "Where do you want to start?"

* * *

Marvela sat down in front of his desk. The recent surprises had somehow made her forget all the questions she'd dreamed of asking over the years. It took her a while to speak. "Um," she ventured; "do I…look like him?"

The teacher considered her.

"You look like Tom Marvolo Riddle did seventy-five years ago. And that squint you probably get from his mother, Merope Gaunt."

"You know most people are polite enough not to mention that," replied the Slytherin reproachfully.

"I don't think it was necessary for you to pretend to be so bad at my subject, though." Harry's professor-role had kicked in.

She pulled her wand out of the hidden pocket in her sleeve and studied it. "It wasn't all pretence. You…recognise this, right? It was You-Know-Who's – none of the others would work for me. That's not right, is it?"

He thought for a while. "No other wands at all would work? I haven't heard of something so extreme before, no. So even if you'd borrowed someone else's wand you'd have done badly duelling me."

The girl nodded. She polished the surface of the wand briefly and put it away again. "I'm not going to get Outstanding if part of the NEWT is going up against you."

"You're aiming for an O?!" he blurted, astonished.

"…"

"Well, on the written tests certainly. Ahem. And you've had a handicap since I arrived."

"Yes."

Although the conversation was friendly on the surface, they were both acutely aware of the insecurities that lurked beneath as the dialogue petered off. Marvela closed her eyes tightly and clenched her fists where he couldn't see them.

"I just…I only…"

He waited for her to gather the words.

"Please, please just tell me that the man is dead. I need to know. I have to know for certain. He kept coming back. He can come back from the dead." Harry's wrist twitched, hiding the second of Voldemort's scars from view. "And all these things about me that have little or nothing to do with normal inheritance – his face, his House, his wand, his eyes, his language – I have _nothing_ from my mother in me, and I just feel all the time like I'm nothing more than a copy of _him_, and it would be so _easy_ for him to return again through me…and I've always felt like…it's only a matter of time…" Her fidgeting hands mimicked the churning in her stomach.

The Man-Who-Lived was half surprised by her confession and half in total agreement with it. But to her relief he was already shaking his head. "He's dead, Ella Vixerus;" he made a point of addressing her by more individual names. "He's really, truly, honestly, indisputably dead." She could see the indelible shadow of the past taint the hero's smile into a haunted movement. "He exists now only in people's memories and my nightmares. What was left of him by the end wasn't even a man; it looked more like a House Elf or a baby. And that's dead now. So don't worry."

The tiny flicker of a hopeful smile on his nemesis's daughter's face reminded him of the euphoric relief most people had felt after the final battle. And as ever, that relief also reminded him of the casualties. The two pawns of Voldemort's will shared a moment's silence.

"You should concentrate on the long-term, Slytherin legacy; not your father," was Harry's final piece of advice. "Salazar is celebrated to this day, even if his House is a bit infamous. I guess I can understand how you felt entitled to see the Chamber of Secrets, because I myself was proud about Gryffindor's sword – "

"AHHH!!" shrieked Marvela, leaping to her feet, knocking over her chair and giving Harry a heart attack. "The Chamber! The _EGG_!!"

"Wha-"

"We have to hurry!"

* * *

Marvela re-entered her dorm, teacher in tow, and saw what the hatchling had done.

She stared at the remains of Morgan le Fay and span slowly, livid, to meet Harry. He flinched backwards violently, having not seen the combination of those eyes, that face, and that _anger_ in two decades.

What they found shortly after, hiding behind a trunk, was not a Basilisk.

* * *

**Chapter notes:**

The very long sentence in the beginning by Marvela _can_ be said in one breath! As for Harry's behaviour, he is new to teaching and it's a very 'sore subject' for him, so his professionalism is somewhat lacking. O rly? Ya rly.

'Piercing emerald orbs that suddenly filled her vision.' Hahaa. Bet you thought that was a Sue moment, didn't you?

'The green could see into her soul.' Charlie the Unicorn 3 reference, YouTube it, prepare to lol your brain cells to death.

Parseltongue is a rare gift associated with Dark wizards, but it's never been described as an exclusively Slytherin trait. So her excuses might have worked had Harry not read her mind, the cheat.

Harry as a Legilimens: it's 20 years later – why not?

The inherited traits: as I wrote in the story, Voldemort's resurrected body was as much magic as flesh. This would likely lead to some bizarre heredity.

Mabbeth Vixerus's prolonged pregnancy was originally a plot device to put Marvela in the same timeline as the 19 Years Later-spawn, but I do consider it a possibility of the situation; that they would abort but it would fail. So that's why it was still included, to add dimension for the mother and stepfather whilst allowing for the timeline to remain intact.

And no, it's not a Basilisk.

Special thanks to Pippin's Socks who helped me write the ending and improved it immensely.

_Alliriyan_


	7. The Ring

**Chapter notes:**

I'd like (love) to announce that Inheritance is my first completed chaptered story in six years, since my very first fanfiction 'Forest Demon' in 2003. I am proud as anything.

Thank you to all of my wonderful reviewers for all the great feedback and the constructive criticism. **Pippin's Socks** for poking me along on msn and helping write chapter six and reviewing every chapter! So this is real life, Hermione-sama, Jaden ruth, Bone White Butterfly (read her fic _Elfin_), sunshinelexi (read her fic _Voldemort's Heir_), and snaphellos for their lovely, multiple reviews. And everyone who's read Inheritance, because I think the hit count will go over a thousand with the last chapter!

**Notes:**  
The Occamy is, like the Runespoor, from the mini-book Fantastic Beasts. All the extra connections and origins are made up by me, though. As for it looking like a secretary bird, that's because secretary birds look incredibly cool, not to mention their scientific name is Sagittarius **Serpent**arius.

I tried to make this chapter self-explanatory so as not to bore you with notes at the end.

The ending itself is…totally open to interpretation, shall we say. : )

Please review!

* * *

_I don't own the Harry Potter franchise – I just like to mess with it._

**Inheritance**

Chapter Seven: The Ring

Marvela advanced angrily, thrashing her wand diagonally down. "_Serpensortia_!"

Unlike the single snake Draco had conjured in his second year, four hooded cobras exploded into being. Her teacher just raised his own wand, having expected this.

"_Oppugno_!" commanded his opponent. The serpents struck.

Well…maybe he hadn't expected such a cunning indirect attack that neatly sidestepped the linked-wands issue. Thank the heavens Voldemort had been too proud to think of such a thing. '_Stop! Don't attack me!_' shouted Harry in Parseltongue.

Four snakes paused, and the apparent leader looked up at its target quizzically. '_I'm sorry; I don't quite understand your accent. Could you repeat that?_'

Whilst he was distracted and his wand lowered, the girl took advantage and fired off an _Impedimenta_ and a _Petrificus Totalus_. He toppled over very slowly, falling as if through treacle. He'd been thrown off guard and not performed the defensive opening spell that had become his trademark over the years.

Harry Potter lay beaten at the feet of Marvela Slytherin.

The class gasped.

* * *

"And now you need to nonverbally un-jinx me," mumbled Professor Potter through gritted teeth. Luckily the second spell hadn't been quite perfect, so he could just about speak. His pupil concentrated for a second and twirled her wand. The hexes released their grip.

"Okay, well done, Ella. That's a massive improvement." He stood up. The room burst into applause. Of course, in his lessons you could never tell if this was aimed at the successful student or just at him, for existing.

Harry clapped his hands together and waited for silence to return. Marvela retreated to her stool and Frieda's praise.

"Now, the next half of the double period will be your weekly dose of Care-of-Magical-Creatures-with-safety-precautions." He felt fully justified in saying this. As much as he loved Hagrid, he'd suffered more than enough at the hands of the half-Giant's 'pets'.

Walking to the side of the classroom, he unveiled a huge, heavy cage with some flair. There were several admiring gasps. Clawing and biting at the metal strips that imprisoned it, was a large bird, which sported a long, thick serpent's tail when it turned round to attack the other side of the crate. It had grown quite a lot in the last week, from a hatchling in an egg the size of a grown man's head, to something that rivalled the larger species of owl.

"Can anybody identify this 'fantastic beast' for me?" asked Harry, hinting heavily.

Three or four hands went up. One was selected. "Is it an Occamy, sir?"

"Well done," agreed the teacher. "And another, Muggle name for an Occamy is a cockatrice. Interestingly, much of Muggle mythology corresponds to wizard world fact. What they don't know, however, is where cockatrices, or Occamies, come from. Who knows?"

"India?"

"Nowadays, yes, but I'm referring to their magical origins. Who's heard of Herpo the Foul?" There was a tide of groans: clearly this had been the subject of some torturous History of Magic lessons.

"Aww, he's _boring_;" whinged a Ravenclaw boy. Harry raised an eyebrow and answered with sarcasm. "Oh yes. He only invented 60 ft snakes with incredibly deadly venom that can kill people with their eyes."

"Thing is, right," said the smart-aleck, interested as ever in starting debates; "even if he _made_ something cool, Herpo personally was just a weird old Greek guy that went around putting frogs in strange places." Abstract thought is its own downfall.

"Eggs," corrected another student.

"Eggs or frogs."

It was true. The Defence Against the Dark Arts post was cursed.

The Occamy voiced a strange, hissing shriek, flapping its unfledged wings uselessly. Its plumage and scales were a banded mixture of pure white, jet black and acid green. The eyes were the vivid yellow that haunted several of Harry's memories. When it spotted Marvela it quieted down and cooed. She scowled.

"Occamies," said Harry, ploughing on with his lesson plan; "are actually descended from Basilisks." _That_ caught their attention. "A Basilisk will never have Basilisk offspring, because their rarity and unnatural nature means there is no opportunity to breed. Instead, the offspring of a Basilisk must also be incubated by a toad for thirty days in order for anything to hatch. And funnily enough, the hatchling will then take after its chicken grandmother. The original cockatrices were recorded as having the head and body of a rooster with the tail of a snake. Varieties like this one are dependent on the species of the chicken and the toads, I suppose." Indeed, it looked little like a rooster and more like a secretary bird, with its hooked beak and long crane-like legs.

"What were they?"

Harry cracked an odd smile. "Well a Ukrainian singing toad for this one," Frieda stiffened; "and maybe…a bantam? We have no idea."

"Ella…" muttered the Prefect softly, "_where_ did you find my toad?" Instead of stuttering like she usually did, Marvela laughed. _Well that's strange_, thought Frieda. _She seems really relaxed today_. That girl being relaxed was the equivalent of Hermione not doing homework, on purpose. Twice in a row. For Snape.

"After the cockatrice generation, it will hopefully stabilise as an Occamy and begin to lay silver eggs." Marvela brightened considerably. _Now that's what I want to hear!_ "This specimen is very young, so you'll notice the tail is relatively small and much lighter than a real snake. As the Occamy matures, it will gradually lose the power of flight and become too large and heavy to take off. After this point it will slither around on its tail and carry the avian torso off the ground, as the proportions change drastically."

The more enthusiastic and/or suck-up students ooohed and ahhhhhed. The creature in the cage alternated between trying to claw its way out and posing for the crowd.

"Quick recap before you write your notes: the origins of the Occamy are rumoured to be in the experimentations of Herpo the Foul. Before, during and after he succeeded in creating a Basilisk, he managed to make several cockatrices. These are the ancestors of the modern Occamy, who have more striking plumage. The problem at the time was that the cockatrices caused a great deal of trouble for the Grecian population, so they were shipped off to another country, namely India. They feed mainly on other birds and rats."

"Sir?"

"Yes, Vixerus?"

"That Occamy ate my cat."

"…aah…and cats…"

Everyone span to stare at the girl who usually shunned all notice. She shrugged. "That's how they found it. Frieda's toad hatched it and they caught it when it was eating Morgan." Her face fell harshly. She loved Morgan and still wasn't convinced a cockatrice was a good enough replacement. But that was the problem (there was always a problem).

The Occamy could only understand and would only obey her, a true Parselmouth. Harry had struggled so much getting through to it that Hagrid and he had decided to unload the responsibility on her. It wasn't big or scary enough (yet) for Hagrid to argue about keeping it for himself. And they didn't seem to care particularly whether she wanted that dubious honour or not. At least it didn't think she was its mother.

She had yet to think of a name for it. If she went with the Chocolate Frog card method again, it would probably end up being called Grindelwald…they didn't even know if it was male or female yet, there not being many Occamy experts outside of India.

_Can I train it to deliver my mail?_ She wondered.

"Where did they find it?!" asked someone excitedly – this was great gossip. Hogwarts is never a dull environment, but neither was there a Voldemort trying to lead a revolution and kill off students in recent years.

Harry intercepted the question before Vixerus could flub it. "At the edge of the Forest, last week."

"Something like that," agreed the Spawn of the Dark Lord evasively, averting her eyes.

* * *

They all sat down to lunch, chatting animatedly about Professor Potter's awesome lessons and that Vixerus girl's cat and their amazement that gossip had existed unshared for a whole week, in _Hogwarts_! Where the rumour mill was powered by two thousand portraits, one hundred House Elves and the odd, you know, ghost before even considering the student population!

The now-famous toad sat by Frieda's plate, behaving for once. It was singing. Somewhat operatically, in a high soprano. "Shh, shhhh, I'm not in the mood for that now. Sing something modern." The toad paused, inflated its throat by about three times, and began to blast out the powerful bass of Smoke on the Water. The Prefect grinned and faced Marvela. "So you're over that crush on Professor Potter now, huh?"

"Huh?" parroted the Heir of Slytherin.

"Don't act surprised," snorted her 'friend'; "why else would you suddenly become totally awful at Dark Arts? It's your best subject!"

"I didn't have a _crush_ on him! Where do you come up with this stuff?"

Frieda smirked and tapped her nose. "I trust my instincts. You've been staring at him all term, and messing up all your spells and homework to get his attention; and occasionally going all - " she posed dramatically and sighed; "- breathless."

The other girl's mind went perfectly blank.

Was that how she'd interpreted the constant panic attacks? "Riiight…" said Marvela, once the horrifying and faintly painful mental image of the illegitimate daughter of a Dark Lord fancying his nemesis and killer Hero Boy With Nerdy Glasses And Kids, Damn It was banished from her mind. "I think I'll go to Divination now."

"Deniiiial ~…" sang the supposed role model for Hogwarts, as the victim ran away.

* * *

Despite the whole let-your-mind-go approach that successful clairvoyants took towards Divination, Marvela was one to approach it with totally focused zeal. It had been her philosophy that, if something was going to happen to her, she wanted to see it coming. But as far as she knew she'd never had a single vision more life-changing than _you might possibly need to avoid a favour next week_.

Walking into the ground floor classroom, she looked around the grassy area and smiled to herself. It felt wonderful to let go of some of the tension. The man she had the most to fear from hadn't hated her, even if it was a result of his uncalled-for searching through her private memories and finding nothing overtly malicious.

There were a few shelves of crystal balls beside the far wall, next to the tea trolley and the textbooks. The centaur had mellowed slightly over time and agreed to teach the lesser, human approaches to scrying alongside his own, grander styles. The rows of glass spheres flashed black and yellow as she made her way over to the teapot. A little startled, she glanced around to see if a wasp or bee had flown past. Finding nothing, she proceeded to make herself a cup of tea, swirling the leaves about and breathing in the warm steam deeply.

She sat by the shallow pool, watching agitated ripples cross its surface without apparent source. When the tea was drunk, the leaves didn't lump together at the bottom, instead forming a brown ring halfway up the side of the cup. She knocked them out onto the lawn. It seemed that she wouldn't even manage a tea reading today.

Another of those long, relaxing sighs breezed out of her. It was nice to be early to Divination. It was even better not to be on Harry's hit list. She just couldn't get over how kind he'd been.

Tipping her head back, she gazed up at the enchanted ceiling for a spot of cloud watching. Of course, the one day she felt nice and tranquil _would_ be the day Scottish weather decided to show how little it cared that it was summer. There was a dramatic thunderstorm playing out above her, though the rain never hit and the classroom's lighting remained bright and calming.

The door creaked open, and Firenze entered. He looked…windswept, to be polite. As he clip-clopped into the chamber, water dripped off his tail, and she noticed that one back hoof was limping quite heavily.

"Have you been out in the Dark Forest, sir?" she asked, standing up. "You didn't run into any danger, did you?"

"No," said the centaur coolly. "I would not be such a fool as to enter my old home on a day when my former herd was near. And most other residents of the Forest I can deal with on my own."

It had been a stupid question to ask a proud being like a centaur. "Oh. Well…" said Marvela, feeling fairly useless; "is something stuck in your hoof? Would you like me to check it quickly, before lesson starts? You look a tad uncomfortable."

Firenze regarded her, absent-mindedly swiping rainwater off his bare arms and flicking his tail. He stamped each hoof in turn to tap the dirt and grit off, but winced as he reached the limping one. "That would be the logical solution," he conceded; "I would rather not have my teaching impaired by a graceless gait."

"Um, ok," said the girl, kneeling down next to the culprit leg. It was a task about as pleasant as scraping the mud off someone else's shoes, combined with the incredibly awkward fact that centaurs _do not wear clothes_. But she was in a good mood so she felt generous.

Scratching at the groove between the solid edging of the hoof and the softer sole, she managed to dislodge the predicted foreign object with the point of a quill. It flashed as it fell to the ground.

"Oho, we have something interesting here;" she announced, moving away from the horsy rear end as fast as possible. He tested his foot again and seemed satisfied. The impromptu vet was polishing mud off the item with the edge of her robe (which was still tattered from that time in the Chamber of Secrets).

Firenze was almost curious. "What did you find?"

After scrubbing at it a bit longer, Marvela held up a heavy gold ring, embedded with a jet black stone. It was battered but still large enough to fit a man's hand, and the gem was cracked. It felt icy against her palm.

"Who'd lose something _this_ expensive in the Forest?" She automatically went to slide it on her finger.

Firenze looked around the room quickly, seeing dark portents in every direction. He'd heard of that ring before, a long time ago. "Wait," he cried urgently.

Smooth gold connected with pale skin, and the chamber took on a chilled, unearthly atmosphere.

She could hear a strange noise. It made her go numb. Seeking out its source, Marvela walked nervously into the shade of a tree by the pool. Any words that Firenze voiced now faded into the background.

There was a small, child-like figure huddled against the thick roots. Its breath struggled to crawl in and out of labouring lungs, hissing through a raw mouth. Fragile, twig-like arms flailed weakly as the body twitched unnervingly back and forth, side to side. It looked like its skin had been ripped off. She felt nauseous yet couldn't tear herself away. Where had it come from? Why had it suddenly appeared?

Leaning right over the tiny, horrific form now; she met its glaring feral eyes.

They were bloody scarlet, slashed through with slivers of black that stared only into oblivion. She'd seen those eyes before – only in mirrors.

Marvela Slytherin suddenly recalled the many horror stories she'd heard, about Horcruxes, a soul torn asunder seven times and that person who had thrown aside all humanity in the fruitless search for immortality.

As she realised what, or rather who, lay gasping in front of her; Voldemort's burning eyes fell upon her and his maimed face little by little twisted in recognition.

Oh;

Shit…

* * *

**The Resurrection Stone:**

Rowling said she would like to believe that a centaur's hoof pushed it into the ground, burying it forever.

…Sure.

-) t h e - e n d (-


End file.
